


"Bit Not Good, Sherlock!"

by LadyGlinda



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Awesome Mrs. Hudson, Drunk Mycroft Holmes, Fluff, Humor, John Is So Done, John is Not Amused, John is a Good Friend, M/M, Mild Smut, Mycroft Being Mycroft, Mycroft Feels, Not Canon Compliant With The Other Seasons, Post-Season/Series 01, Sherlock Being Sherlock, Sherlock is a Brat, Sibling Incest, holmescest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-13
Updated: 2018-10-15
Packaged: 2019-08-01 11:07:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,849
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16283456
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyGlinda/pseuds/LadyGlinda
Summary: Sherlock behaves like his usual nasty, Season-1-self. John won't have it anymore. Sherlock has to make up for his failures. Unplanned developments occur in chapter two.





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> The two chapters are very different from each other. The second one will be less funny but all the more fluffy, and eventually smutty. I took some liberties regarding Greg Lestrade's private life.

## Prelude

“What?!”

John Watson sighed deeply. “You really have to ask?”

Sherlock grimaced. “Bit not good again, yeah?” Not that he really thought it was his fault. Why had this bloody client-woman run out of the flat now, sobbing above all? Just because he had told her that her husband had not ended as a victim of a ruthless murderer but just escaped their awful marriage and was enjoying his freedom at a sunny beach?

“Bit not good at all, Sherlock.” John looked really displeased.

The detective shrugged. “I'm sorry?”

Another sigh was uttered. “No, you're not. We're going to have to work on this.”

Sherlock didn’t quite agree. This sort of work didn’t sound like fun at all…

## Molly Hooper

“But… Molly!”

A scalpel dropped onto the tiled floor with an awful noise, even more awful sobs reached his ear and then he and John were alone in the autopsy room – apart from the bloody corpse of course, and it seemed to stare indignantly at him. Someone should close its eyes already!

Sherlock turned around to John when a deep sigh met his ear. “What is it now?! I just said…”

John raised his hands with closed eyes. “I heard what you said, Sherlock. And it was cruel and insensitive.”

“But it was just the truth!”

“Yes, well, sometimes people know the truth but that doesn’t mean they want to hear it from others, especially not from the person they… like…”

Sherlock scowled. It was not his fault that literally everybody he met was so unpleasantly squeamish! He was a man of science and facts and he had only stated facts. He couldn’t be blamed for people not being able to endure that and just explode!

Explode… What if he mixed nitro-glycerine and…

“Sherlock! No musing about experiments now! You will make it up to her!”

“What?! How? Why?” He had simply suggested her going for a coffee with the new pathologist, Dr Kaeffer, while Sherlock and John were examining the dead body. He didn’t have any hair on his head anymore and his teeth looked false but they had something in common after all – dead bodies. And since Molly couldn't have him, Sherlock, she should just give it a try, he had said, feeling actually very sensitive and caring, burdening his brilliant brain with hatching plans for other people's non-existent love life and giving such good advice. Actually he had just wanted to _help_! And this was what he got for it!

“You will… take her out for lunch,” John decided, not even bothering explained the 'why'.

“I never eat lunch! I…”

“Then you'll just drink coffee or water or whatever! Just be nice to her!”

“But I don't want to…”

“I know you don't!” John sounded seriously pissed off now. “I'm so fed up with you stomping on people's feelings like some, some…”

“Elephant?” Sherlock suggested helpfully.

“Yes! No! Elephants are very sensitive!”

Sherlock scowled at him. “Don't want to go eat lunch with Molly…” What would they talk about? Corpses? What else if not that? He knew he would be completely out of his depth. All this nasty emotional schlock. Holmeses couldn't deal with that and they shouldn’t be forced to!

His flatmate rolled his eyes in a very Holmesish way. “Okay, no lunch. Buy her some chocolates then! Women love chocolates!”

Sherlock trusted his 'every-week-another-girlfriend'-flatmate to know that, having no idea himself whatsoever what women in general or Molly in particular liked apart from – annoyingly - him. “What sort?”

John made a rather disturbing noise deep in his throat. “What… I don't know! Something nice and expensive!” Sherlock took a deep breath but before he could utter _'must I?'_ John shouted, “Yes, you must!”

Damn. John knew him way too well…

*****

“Um, hello.” Sherlock stepped from one foot to the other.

“Hello.” Molly didn’t sound very encouraging.

“Um. I… you know… Here.” Sherlock held out the package, wrapped in nice paper by the woman in the chocolate shop. _'Sweet Little Pleasures'_ had been the name _. 'Hopelessly Overpriced Gifts'_ it should have been called…

Molly took off her transparent gloves. Her cheeks blushed when she took the package. “For me?”

Something about her tone and her expression was alarming but John was waiting outside the morgue, having said Sherlock had to deal with this alone. He wouldn’t have Sherlock running away without completing his mission. He would probably drag him back into the building by his ear. Sherlock didn’t like his ears to be pulled at. People had done that too often to him – Mummy, the nannies, Mycroft. And John. Again and again…

He cleared his throat unnecessarily. “Yes. For you.”

“Oh!” She smiled cautiously at him and then removed the paper from the box of chocolates. “Oh, I love them! That's my favourite sort! How did you know that?”

Of course Sherlock hadn't known it at all. He had rummaged in the shop until the lady behind the counter had come to him and all but slapped his hand away from all the different kinds of chocolate bars and nougat-bits and all the luring goodies. Sherlock liked chocolate, too. She had sternly asked if she could help him, definitely not expecting and accepting a 'no', and he had stammered that he needed a little present for a young woman, and she had nodded and picked something in nice colours and rushed back behind the counter to demand an outrageously high amount of money from him and deftly wrapped the paper around the box, and two minutes later Sherlock had been back out on the street.

And only now he saw what he had bought – a box of chocolate hearts in different sorts. Hearts! Even Sherlock knew that this was not good.

“Um…”

“Oh, Sherlock…” Molly's eyes were full of tears. Not the sad sort. Not yet.

“Um, that doesn't mean… Just sorry for… John said…”

Her face fell and he could see the tears rolling out of her eyes. “Of course,” she mumbled, lowering her head.

Sherlock felt horrible. Watson and his great ideas! “You… are really… nice,” he stumbled. “Very… And you…”

“Can't have you, I know,” she said in a tone that was on the edge of bitterness.

“But I like you,” Sherlock brought out. “I do. You're so useful and…” She winced and so did he. Good that John hadn't heard that… “No! I didn’t want to say…” Well, actually he'd had… But still, she was a very nice human. If she only finally accepted that Sherlock and nice humans were sort of incompatible, especially if they were female.

“It's alright, Sherlock.” Her tone indicated the opposite. “I should have known that… Anyway. That's a nice gesture. Thank you.”

Sherlock swallowed. She had to forgive him or John would have his guts for garters… “I didn’t want to make you feel bad.” God, how ghastly this all was… But he had no choice but to carry on. “I don't… feel things like you normal people. My brother and I…” Oh, yes, Mycroft… What would he have said to this unpleasant scene? How did he deal with all these VIPs and Royals he was surrounded by? They were certainly much more difficult to handle than Molly Hooper… Mycroft was every bit as averse to sentiment as he was… Anyway… “We are not like this…”

“I don't believe that, Sherlock,” Molly said very quietly. “I think you can feel as much as… we feel. But you don't because… nobody means enough to you.”

Well, yes. She sort of had a point. He did care though, in his own way. For John. For Mrs Hudson. And in a way also for Molly and Graham. Or Grant? Lestrade, anyway. But even he was aware that she wasn’t talking about this sort of feelings… “Sorry,” he mumbled again. “I didn’t want to… I merely wanted to point out that there are other men around you could… like.”

“Oh yes, old Doctor Kaeffer for example.” She didn’t seem to be pleased by him.

“Somebody, then. Somebody who… isn't me.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and more tears were pressed out from under her lids. “I know it, Sherlock. I've always known I can't have you. But isn't what you can't have exactly what you want more than anything?”

Was that a rhetorical question or was he supposed to agree with her? Because of course that was true.

She opened her eyes again and a small smile came to her lips. “It's okay, Sherlock. We are good.”

“Are we?”

She shrugged. “I know you didn’t mean any harm. Not yesterday and not today. Or at any other time when you were just nasty to me…”

Sherlock winced at that. “I just suck at this… feeling stuff,” he said with a nod and a vague hand gesture.

“Oh yes, you really do.”

Sherlock was delighted to see a genuine grin on her face. He knew that wouldn’t last though. Unrequited love was something terrible, John had explained to him. But wasn't it better to have spoken about it? So it wouldn't linger around them forever? So they could forget it and return to business?

“Well. Thanks again. I have to…” Molly looked over to the stretcher with the very patient patient. One with closed eyes this time, thank God.

“Oh, sure. Bye then. See you soon.”

Molly smiled. “Yes. You know where to find me when you need something.”

Sherlock really hoped she had meant 'in a professional way'. “Perhaps we could have lunch together some time,” he suggested, and added at once, “with John.”

She nodded. “That would be nice.” She sounded resigned and relieved at the same time.

Sherlock was just feeling relieved. Everything was sorted. They were good. John would be happy with him.

He said goodbye again and stalked out of the morgue. Hopefully he would have a really good case today. He deserved it. He demanded it. He had done well and there had to be a reward.

## Gregory Lestrade

“I have to say I don't quite get it.” Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade scratched his grey-haired head with an expression of utter confusion even though it was clear as day.

Sherlock rolled his eyes in desperation. “Now _that's_ something new! I'm surprised you don't have that on a t-shirt already!” He had read this somewhere and found it very funny.

Lestrade didn’t seem to be attempted to laugh though. In fact his big brown eyes looked rather sad. And behind Sherlock, John cleared his throat in this _'Dammit-Sherlock-You-Twat!'_ -way Sherlock hated so much. Only a year since they had started being flatmates and working together and over was John's stunned admiration for his brilliance already. Now he only criticised him like everybody else. It wasn't fair! John was supposed to be on _his_ side!

“I don't get it either,” Anderson said from behind, very unsurprisingly.

Sherlock opened his mouth but John's hand closed around his upper arm quite painfully and he shut it again, grimacing. The doctor didn’t have large hands but they were _strong_ …

“Why don't you explain it for all of us?” John suggested, his voice not quite succeeding at sounding casual. In fact he sounded as if he was royally pissed off but didn’t want to show it, and Sherlock didn’t even need his deduction capabilities to figure that out.

The detective nodded. He had to remind himself that these people were no geniuses. They were idiots or half-idiots or almost-idiots. Everything had to be elucidated in detail to them so they could follow his complicated trains of thought. So he told them, gesticulating, step by step why the murderer of this woman who was lying in the middle of some pathetic piece of wild vegetation next to a public park could not be another victim of the 'London Slitter' as the press had predictably named him. Sherlock was secretly very upset that he hadn't managed to identify and catch this faceless phantom so far. But this woman had simply been robbed and dumped here and the knife hadn't been the same sort. The signs were so clear! She hadn't been arranged like all the others! The cut was going into the other direction! Her hands had not been stomped at! And all the other discrepancies he listed! The robber was living nearby. He had worn a green shirt and black trousers and he was a red-head. Clear as day! They would have him within an hour.

Nobody interrupted him and when he was finished, the men all nodded.

“I see now, okay,” Lestrade mumbled. “Pretty silly, me.”

Sherlock shifted his weight. Lestrade wasn't silly. Not really. Not like Anderson. He was a bit blind sometimes and didn’t observe well enough. He was the usual kind of idiot – idiot meaning not as smart as Sherlock. Everybody was an idiot. Well, except for Mycroft of course. Anyway…

He opened his mouth to tell Lestrade what he was thinking but in this moment the DI's phone rang and he turned away from him.

John stepped closer to him. “You're going to make up for that,” he said, in this casual non-nonsense tone Sherlock had learned to tremendously dislike.

Sherlock swallowed. “Chocolates?”

“Ah, no. Don't think so. I have another idea…”

Somehow Sherlock was rather sure he wouldn’t like it. But he also knew he would do it. For whatever reason, he didn’t like to upset John. John was like… home. He was his home. His best friend. Without the connotations everybody seemed to assume, even Mrs Hudson. Sherlock didn’t do such things, and John was as straight as he could get. Sherlock wasn't, of course. But… Ghastly things… He didn’t want them. Sometimes he thought of it, though. When he woke up in the morning with his annoying… penis filled out. He did take care of this. Sort of had to. Quickly, efficiently like he did everything. Thinking of some headless, hairy man sucking him off. Which didn’t make much sense if he thought about it… Anyway…

“Okay. But I'll have to catch this killer first!” It was enough that he hadn't been able to solve the other case so far!

“Sure.” John was generous now that he knew Sherlock would do as he was told.

Lestrade returned to them, and Sherlock explained him his plan, managing to roll his eyes only once when he threw in a completely unnecessary question.

An hour later, the killer was brought to prison and Sherlock felt as if he was high. Until John told him what he had to do to apologise to Lestrade…

*****

With a deeply suspicious look on his face, Sherlock sneaked into the pub. It was as ghastly as expected. Loud. Crowded. Beer glasses on every ramshackle table. And uniforms. Everywhere were uniforms.

He wondered why Lestrade was drinking in the same pub as the rank and file. Weren't there nicer _etablissements_ just for detectives? It suited him though. Lestrade didn’t think he was better than the patrolmen… He was not that kind of man. In opposite to Sherlock…

He caught a few surprised and not exactly delighted glances while he was strolling through the room, avoiding having beer poured over his shoes by the busy waiters or the cops who went to the bar to get their drinks. What had John thought, sending him into the lion's den?! He had probably insulted 78.6 % of the people in here at least once over the past years because of their tremendous stupidity and insufficiency. And they _still_ worked for the police which said enough about the organisation itself…

Finally he spotted Lestrade in the back of the room. He was sitting at a small round table all alone. Sherlock had _known_ he didn’t fit in here!

When he reached him, Lestrade looked up from his glass. “Sher… Sherlock?”

Sherlock sat down opposite of him. “Yes. That's me.” Not good. No sarcasm now! He was here to make things better, not worse! He cleared his throat. “Hi, Gary.” Better to not be so formal.

“Greg!”

Damn! Why did he always mess this up? He just _couldn’t_ recall this man's first name! “Sorry!”

Greg shrugged. “It's okay. You have more important things to think about…”

That was not good. Not good in the least. The man seemed to be depressed, not just upset about the wrong name or Sherlock's behaviour earlier that day. And Sherlock had no idea how to respond to this mood.

They were silent for a long minute. Then both of them spoke at the same time.

“You're a good cop, you really are!”

“I know I suck.”

They shut their mouths at once. Then Lestrade sighed. “I am, in a way. A good cop. I was a really good one when I'd just started at the Yard. Saw things other didn’t. Not like you of course but… These days… for years… I think I lost my instinct. Together with my personal luck.”

“Huh?”

“My wife. It was difficult for a long time. And then she left, with the kids. I hardly see them anymore. And when I do, they're like strangers. Missed so much about their childhood, being a cop. And now they are almost grown up, don't need their old man anymore. Happened so fast. Got a new dad now who buys them everything they want. Is always there, a man of private means… Not some underpaid copper who works shifts and can't even be at home at Christmas!”

Sherlock had winced under the increasingly loud voice, telling him more about the man's private life than he'd heard in the past years of working with him and much more than he'd ever wanted to know. Lestrade realised his distress and sighed, patting his arm.

“Sorry, mate. Didn’t want to get loud. Not your fault in the least.”

“John said I hurt you today,” Sherlock mumbled. Of course he had thought this himself, too. But he didn’t like to admit it. Better to blame it on John…

“Nah, not hurt, just… I feel a bit… small in your presence every time I see you and when you say such things… Perhaps I should just retire, go somewhere warm and nice.”

“You can't do that! Who will give me cases!” Sherlock protested, outraged.

Greg grinned and shook his head. “You really are some special kind, Sherlock…”

“I am. You are, too. Everybody is. You can't just give it up! Not your job – I'm here to help out if you're out of your depth.” Damn, that had sounded good, either. “I mean if I can help,” he corrected lamely. “And your children – they are still your children! No matter if their mother is with someone else – you are their dad. And they are old enough to understand why your job is important and kept you from being at home too often. Explain it. Talk to them.” He shut up, feeling utterly exhausted and like a total imposter. Who was he to tell Lestrade how to deal with his kids! Sherlock didn't know shit about kids and about being a father. He knew he'd never be one and he didn’t want to but he was quite sure it was a tough job.

But Lestrade smiled. “You know what - you're right. That's exactly what I will do!” He nodded to himself. “Allowed them to push me aside for too long. You wouldn’t allow that being done to you.”

Sherlock shook his head. “No.” But who would do that? He had always been the prince for his parents. And even for Mycroft, when he'd been a kid, although the parents had paid Sherlock so much more attention than him. Now? Who knew what Mycroft really thought about him? They rarely met and if they did, they didn’t exactly _talk_ to each other… Oh, well, actually they did _. 'Sherlock, you must do this!' 'You're getting fat again, brother.'_ No, Sherlock didn’t think Mycroft was very fond of him these days…

Greg had totally missed his thoughts, gulping down his beer. “Probably you'd kick their arses… Thank you, Sherlock. Who knew you care so much about me?” He winked at him and Sherlock didn’t know what to make of that. Was the man mocking him? Was he, God forbid, making a move on him?! And why did he not know that!

“Friend,” he mumbled, just in case.

“Sorry?”

“You're my friend. Not like John but… you gave me the chance, back then, working with you. You listen when I tell you something. You try to do better. You don't always succeed but…” He was really crap at this, nobody had to tell him. But Lestrade seemed to understand.

“Of course I listen to someone who is so smart. A git and a little too fond of drugs but very smart.”

“I don't do drugs anymore. Never will again.” John would break his back if he did. Mycroft would look very disappointed. Both ghastly…

“Good. That's very good. Now, Sherlock. Will you drink a beer with me? From friend to friend?”

“I thought I shouldn’t take drugs.”

Lestrade chuckled. “Touché. An orange juice then. Water. Anything.”

“I'll have a pint. One. And then some Coke.”

“Deal. If you didn’t mean cocaine…” Sherlock snorted and the DI laughed. “You know what – you've changed a lot since John moved in with you. You're still insufferable sometimes but the old Sherlock would have never come here to say sorry.”

He hadn't even done that, Sherlock just realised. “Sorry, yes. I came to say sorry! John sent me…” he added.

Greg nodded. “I know he did. But it is still your decision to do what he tells you or tell him to shut up. I'm glad you came. Good lad.”

“So you accept my apology?”

“Of course I do. And now I'll get your pint.” He smiled at Sherlock and the detective smiled back.

It was all good now.

“Thanks, George,” he said when Lestrade came back with the glass.

The DI laughed. “I don't believe you!”

Sherlock grinned. “Nah. Won't forget it anymore, Greg.”

They clinked glasses. “I wouldn’t bet on that, Sherlock,” Greg said with a fond smile.

Sherlock shrugged. “Doesn’t mean I don't like you. Never did.”

“Don't get sappy,” he was reprimanded with a wink.

“Far from it.”

It turned out to be a very pleasant evening, spent in a pub full of hostile cops but with someone who was now really a friend.

## Mrs Hudson

It wasn’t Sherlock's fault! He would insist on this until his very last day! It was this boring, nasty day. Just one client, a five at best, no calls from Scotland Yard, nothing to do. He had passed the time with two experiments that failed, and he would really miss his left eyebrow, and then he sat down and shouted for Mrs Hudson as John had to go to some soddy agency, talking about his army pension. When she didn’t show up within twenty seconds, he shouted again.

She came upstairs, tutting. “You are screeching my house down, Sherlock! What is wrong?”

“I want tea!”

“And you couldn’t do it yourself because…?”

“Mrs Hudson! I am a hard-working man who wants his tea! And biscuits! Lots of biscuits!”

“I'm not your housekeeper, Sherlock!”

“But of course you are! You have nothing else to do!”

She gasped and then John was standing in the room, his face looking like the darkest cloud on a very rainy English day.

“Sorry what?” he asked, calmly, but with this certain light in his big dark-blue eyes.

“Nothing,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Yes, nothing,” Mrs Hudson spat out. “That's what people are for you, right?” And with this she hurried out of the flat, shaking John's hand off.

“Sherlock!”

“It's not my fault! It was so boring and you were not here and Mrs Hudson…”

John sighed and dropped onto his chair, stopping his explanations with an impatient hand-gesture. “You know what that means, right?”

“Chocolates,” Sherlock said in a bitter tone. Surely Mrs Hudson didn’t go to pubs where he could meet her and have a nice pint and a fine Coke with her.

“Chocolates and a pot-plant,” John said with a nod. “You were very nasty.”

“I didn’t mean to!”

“I know. I really do. Sometimes your mouth is running away with you. Sometimes you fall back into old habits. Bad habits.”

Sherlock sulked. This whole 'be-nice-to-everybody'-thing just sucked.

“No sulking! You know – many people like you. They really do. And I know you like them, too. You are almost thirty. You have to learn how to treat those people right! All people actually but especially the ones who do so much for you. Letting you into the morgue for experiments and examining corpses. Giving you cases to solve. Tidy up your mess and have your suits dry-cleaned and bring you tea. Don't take this all for granted!”

John was right, as usual. He was Sherlock's conscience. He'd never had one before. “I'm sorry,” the detective mumbled.

“Good boy. And now go and get the stuff.”

Sherlock nodded and got up. At least he had something to do now…

*****

An hour later he knocked at the door of 221a. Which wasn't easy with a soddy huge plant in one arm and a mighty box of chocolates in the other hand. _'No hearts!'_ he had hissed at the woman in the store. Not that he thought Mrs Hudson would misinterpret his gift as a love confession but… no way he would risk that…

She looked at him with wide eyes when she had opened up. “Oh, Sherlock! What is that?”

“Um. Sorry. This is… Well… For you.” He offered her both the plant and the chocolate box at the same time.

“Oh, this is so sweet! Come in, dear!” She beamed at him without taking anything from his hands, and Sherlock felt something nasty in his chest. Sentiment!

He stumbled into his landlady's flat. It was neat and smelled freshly cleaned and a little bit of the _Chanel No. 5_ she always used to wear. Somehow it always felt like another world to be in this flat. A world without crime or boredom or feeling wound-up. A place of... peace, for a lack of a better word. Damn, he was _really_ getting soppy...

“Let's go to the living room, my boy,” she said, sounding irritatingly happy. “Oh, look at that! Such fine chocolates! And a plant! What sort is it?”

Sherlock grimaced. Of course the salesman had told him but he had immediately deleted the information. “I don't know,” he confessed and sat down in a comfortable chair opposite of her after putting his presents onto the wooden table.

“Ah, doesn't matter! Plants and I always become friends!” She reverently stroked over the thin leafs.

Sherlock didn’t doubt this at all. The small flat already looked like a jungle. But none of them resembled the green thing he had gotten. He really should have remembered the name. John wouldn’t be happy if she told him…

He tilted his head when he realised how smug Mrs Hudson was looking. “Molly told you about the chocolates,” he deduced, darkly.

Mrs Hudson smiled. “She said John sent you to buy them.”

“So this was all a ruse!” Sherlock was shocked. “You manipulated me into buying you presents?!”

“And that from a man who manipulates everybody…”

“No, that's not true. I don't. Not always…” Sherlock mumbled.

Mrs Hudson patted his hand. “Take it as a lesson, Sherlock. And I _was_ a bit hurt. I do have other things to do than making you tea and being shushed to buy biscuits!”

“I know. I was just bored and… I'm sorry…” While he was here, he could as well apologise even if she hadn't been as hurt as she had pretended to be. Not many people could fool him like this. She was smart, this old lady!

“Oh, Sherlock. You don't even know what a sweet boy you are.”

“Huh?! Sweet?! Me?”

“Oh yes, you. Whoever gets to be with you one day can consider himself very happy.”

Sherlock was speechless. But then he wondered how he could have forgotten that she thought he and John were together… “Not John!”

“Of course not. Considering all the women he spends his time with, I didn’t expect this anymore…” She did sound disappointed.

“Not Molly!” he burst out, just in case this would have been her next assumption. But then he recalled that she had said 'himself'.

She shook her head with a knowing expression. “No woman will get you.”

“No man will either. I'm not like this. I… don't need that.”

She looked at him like a medieval torturer might have looked at a witch. “Not at all? You are not best friends with your right hand like any other man?”

“Mrs Hudson!”

She giggled. “It's nothing to it if you palm…”

“Mrs Hudson!!!”

She slapped his hand. “You don't have to tell me. Sometimes I do hear you moan in your deep voice though when John isn't at home over night and I know you are all alone.”

His cheeks were on fire now; he could feel it. He couldn’t remember having felt so embarrassed ever before… He would never wank again. And if he had to, he would bite into the pillow when he came…

“Oh, Sherlock, don't blush! It's so normal to do that! And it shows that you could have that with another person, too.”

“Please, Mrs Hudson,” he pleaded.

She giggled again. “You are like the son I never had. You can talk to me about such things.”

Sherlock bit his lip. He would have never been able to speak about something like this with his mother. She adored him and had always done so much for him, but she would have probably rather cut off her tongue than to talk about sex with him. He had never talked about that with anyone. With whom? His father? He didn’t even want to imagine. Father was a gentleman and very gentle. Sherlock couldn’t even imagine him in a sexual situation. Let alone with his mother. He shuddered. Mycroft?! He knew big brother had made some experiences when he had been a teenager but he was sure his brother had never touched a man since then. He found it ghastly like every human contact Sherlock was certain. Of course he could have spoken with John with his vivid sex life. But as a straight man, he wouldn’t understand… And why did he think about that at all?! Sherlock didn’t _have_ a sex life!

“Oh, look at you. I didn’t want to upset you. Silly old lady, me,” Mrs Hudson said with a sad sigh, dropping her head.

“Oh, no, you are not! If I had a sex life, apart from my… right hand, and sometimes my left one, you would be _the_ person for me to talk about it,” Sherlock hurried to assure her. She giggled again and he knew he had fallen for her performance once more. He rolled his eyes. “You're not playing fair!”

“Of course not. A little punishment can't be foregone.” She smiled and winked at him but then she grew serious. “You mean a lot to me, Sherlock, you and John, and it's not nice to be yelled at like you did earlier.”

He looked at her enquiringly and saw she meant it this time. He nodded.  “I won't do it again.”

“That's a good boy! And now I'll make tea and then we'll try the chocolates, what do you think?”

Sherlock smiled. “That sounds very good to me.”

“Perhaps I'll even find a fresh package of ginger nuts.”

“Mrs Hudson – I love you!”

Her giggle and her blush made Sherlock's day. It was nice to be nice – he had to admit it. Perhaps he would always be like this now.

## Interlude

For a while, Sherlock could be very proud of himself. Most of the times, he took a deep breath before he responded to something completely imbecilic, annoying or boring and thought, _'What would John say now?'_ and then said something sufficiently polite. There were some minor slippings on exceptionally hard days or in very idiotic situations but it never escalated – thanks to John, of course.

 _“Anderson, you are such an utter...”_ [John cleared his throat behind him] _“…expert, but on this matter I disagree with you.”_

 _“Lestrade, do you really not…”_ [John narrowed his eyes behind the DI] _“…I mean, let me explain it, Greg, please.”_ This had happened when he had finally solved the 'London-Slitter'-case.

 _“Mrs 'I-don’t-remember-your-name', do you seriously think…”_ [John kicked his ankle] _“… ouch… I couldn't solve this case for you? It might be just a four…”_ [another kick] _“… ah, four-minute case for me but I’m delighted to help you.”_

John was his conscience, as he'd always been. It worked pretty fine. Sherlock grew into his kinder personality slowly but steadily. People even started to smile at him! It was disturbing sometimes, especially when Donovan forgot to call him a 'freak' once and almost smirked at him, but he nearly behaved like a non-sociopathic person most of the times.

And then his brother came along.


	2. Part 2

## Brother Mycroft

It began like it always began – with Mycroft Holmes, The British Government, all well-groomed, smug arrogance in a stylish three-piece suit and a golden watch chain poking out of it, waltzing into 221b as if it was his own, glancing down on Sherlock like he'd always done, with a look of contempt and exasperation. “Doctor Watson,” he said in his cold voice without even looking at the ex-soldier, who was sitting in his chair next to Sherlock. The last client had just left a minute ago.

“Mycroft,” John answered calmly.

“Thank you for not taking my calls or answering to my texts, Sherlock,” Mycroft said in this annoyingly _polite-but-pissed-off_ -tone. His right hand was cramping around the inevitable umbrella, the other one was holding his black, leather briefcase.

Sherlock had in fact problems with his phone battery so he had neither heard him calling nor read his texts. But instead of telling him, he snarled, “I'm sure it was a matter of national importance” in his most condescending way.

“In fact it was! And still is! I need you to investigate…”

“I don't have time for your nonsense,” Sherlock interrupted him rudely. “I'm busy!”

“Yes, you look very busy indeed!” Mycroft shot back, his carotid thrumming visibly.

“You've put on weight,” Sherlock accused, completely out of context, irrationally and utterly incorrectly. He saw John frowning and it surprised him. John never took Mycroft's side. Sherlock was sure he couldn’t stand him since their very first meeting, when he had been more or less kidnapped by Anthea to be interrogated like a criminal.

Mycroft sighed his long-suffering _annoyed-big-brother_ -sigh like only he could. “You are getting more childish with every day, Sherlock, you…”

“Why don't you just piss off!” Sherlock shut his mouth with a noise that hurt his own ears.

There was silence for a long moment. Sherlock didn’t dare look at John, and he wondered why on earth he had lost his composure like this. Was it because he'd been on such good terms with almost everybody else over the past weeks? Because everybody seemed to like him – well, except for Donovan of course – but his only brother despised him? He didn’t have time to think it through properly because Mycroft turned and left without another word, his face like granite but in his eyes a glimmer of something Sherlock hadn't seen before so clearly – hurt.

He listened to his brother's heavy steps on the stairs and then the front door opened and closed. Sherlock was still looking at the open door of 221b when John cleared his throat.

“I know!” Sherlock blurted. “That was fucking not good at all!”

“Well spoken,” John mumbled. “And I really thought we had gotten this out of you – more or less… That was worse than ever!”

“Chocolates?” He shook his head when he had spoken it out. Mycroft would just think he was mocking him. “Not good…”

“No. I'd say a bottle of something expensive and tasty. And an explanation. Not even mentioning a thorough apology…”

“I don't know why I do it. He just… makes me crazy!” Nobody could make him crawl up the walls like Mycroft could.

John sighed. “You know my sister and I are not on very good terms, either. Sibling relationships are very complicated, especially when both siblings are such complicated persons. Add the Holmes' brain and arrogance, the large age gap. He, being so overpowering. You, behaving like a brattish teenager.”

“I do not…”

“Yes you do!”

Sherlock backed away from John's loud voice.

The doctor sighed again. Sherlock hadn't heard him sigh for quite some time, and he had not missed it. “This can't be repaired with a nice present but it's a start. Wait until the evening and go to his house so he's more relaxed – if he ever is. And please – try to behave like the grown-up you've been lately. I really liked this new, nice Sherlock. He would, too!”

“I can't be like this to him, John,” Sherlock said in a hopeless tone. “He would just despise me for being weak.”

“Nonsense! You hurt him; even I could see that. You know I'm not his biggest fan but this wasn't necessary.”

He was missing the point. “He'll never accept me, John. I can go to him and bring him a bottle of the best whiskey I can get and a huge cake and even one of these soddy suits and throw myself at his feet, and he will still think I'm a useless addict without a real job and too many ordinary people around me. Sorry for that…” he added with a sheepish grin.

John waved this away. “Never mind. We are all idiots compared to you two.”

“Goldfish.”

“Sorry?”

“That's what he calls you usual humans. Not worth his attention. And not worth mine… even though he thinks I’m a loser…”

“Dear God – there's an ocean of resentments between you two, right?”

Sherlock nodded darkly. Mycroft resented him for his prior drug use, not believing that he'd overcome his problems a long while ago when he had started helping out Lestrade. He thought Sherlock should find an appropriate job and use his brain for some pompous purpose like he did, servant of the Queen that he was. He thought Sherlock was wasting his talents and his time, not seeing that what Sherlock did was for the sake of people who would be lost without his help. And Mycroft, having been alone all his adult life, didn’t get why Sherlock had started making friends, beginning with John and Mrs Hudson and then Molly, with whom he was getting along a lot better now that they had spoken it out, and Greg, whose name he could finally remember on cue.

Mycroft thought Sherlock was too good for them, but he wasn't good enough for him as he would, in his eyes, always be an addict, which might be true or not, but Sherlock knew that as long as he had John at his side and was supported by his other friends, he would never fall back into bad, old habits. Mycroft didn’t understand him – that was the bottom line. And of course Sherlock didn’t understand him either…

“It's hopeless,” he concluded.

John shook his head. “You won't get off the hook so easily, Sherlock. You will at least try to make it all better. He's your brother, he's your family. It's worth investing something into it.”

“Only if you do the same with Harry!”

John sighed. “You are not in the position to blackmail me, but as you're right, I will do it.”

How could it all be so easy with John, whom he'd known for little more than a year and so, so difficult with his brother, whom he had known all his life? Well, as much as anyone could know Mycroft at all. It was a mystery to Sherlock. But yes, he would give it a try. He hadn't liked this look in Mycroft's icy blue eyes…

*****

Sherlock could see light in what had to be Mycroft's living room, but his brother didn’t open up when he rang the doorbell. It was eight pm, and Sherlock was armed with a bottle of _Chivas Regal 18 Years Blended Scotch Whiskey_.

After trying it once more, Sherlock took out his key and opened up, feeling a stirring in his stomach. He stumbled through the dark hallway and yes, the light he had seen from outside was coming from the living room, so he walked over there.

He hadn't been in this house for years. He could remember times when he had used this key – that Mycroft had given him when he had moved into this house ten years ago - to find money here for buying drugs. He wasn’t exactly proud of this… Mycroft could have installed an alarm system to keep him off – not that Sherlock wouldn’t have been able to deal with that. He could have confiscated the key. But his brother had never done either of it.

He almost dropped the expensive whiskey when he took in the sight after entering the huge room. Mycroft was half sitting, half lying on his couch, wearing his now hopelessly crumpled suit trousers and an unbuttoned, open white shirt. His tie was draped over the edge of the table in front of him. For a moment Sherlock thought he was ~~dead~~ sick, but then he could see that his brother was breathing, rather noisily in fact, and finally he saw the empty whiskey bottle on the table and could smell the alcohol in the air.

He couldn’t believe his eyes. Mycroft was off, totally drunk, looking as deranged as Sherlock had never seen him before. The open shirt gave free sight on his chest – covered in black hair from collarbones to navel.

Very slowly Sherlock stepped closer, took off his coat and put it over a chair, and then he sat down next to his brother, who showed no indication of waking up. He looked at the bottle he had placed on the table and cursed himself for bringing it. The last thing Mycroft needed was more whiskey… But what _did_ he need?

Sherlock had no idea…

And he couldn’t take his eyes off his brother's bare chest. Large, pink nipples were visible under the fur, and Sherlock realised he had stopped breathing. This was awkward to say the least. Mycroft would be terrified of Sherlock seeing him like this – drunk, exposed, vulnerable; no armour of clothes and poshness and superiority to hide behind.

He could leave, explain John in which state he had found his brother, having left to spare him the embarrassment. But… he couldn’t. It would feel like a betrayal of Mycroft. Sherlock was sure nobody had ever seen him like this, and it felt wrong to tell anybody, even John. And if he didn’t tell John why he had left without doing why he had come for, his friend would be disappointed and think Sherlock was a coward.

And what if Mycroft was in this state… because of what Sherlock had said to him? And why did he even ask himself this? Of course it was because of him… The thought was horrid.

He had to stay and deal with Mycroft as he was and hope something good would come out of this, even though he highly doubted it…

He held his breath when Mycroft finally moved, his eyelids fluttering, and he shifted his weight towards him as if he had sensed Sherlock's presence. And then his big brother leaned to the side too far and lost his balance, and Sherlock hurried to put an arm around his shoulder to stabilize him, feeling his warmth under the thin fabric of the soft shirt.

His brother's head dropped against his shoulder painfully hard, and then Mycroft smiled, still only half-awake. “Sherlock…” he mumbled into Sherlock's shirt.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Yes. I'm here.” How dull this sounded… And how strange it felt to have an arm wrapped around this man he couldn’t remember having touched since he'd been about six years old…

“My Sherlock…”

Was he really aware that Sherlock was with him? Or was he deep in his thoughts, memorising a time long ago when Sherlock had been a child and had looked up to his chubby, brave, smart older brother?

No matter what it was – it made Sherlock's heart ache. The past weeks of trying to behave in a kinder way to not only his friends but to clients and strangers had obviously changed him more than he had thought. And this wasn't a stranger. No client. Not even his friend. It was his only brother, who had taught him to do deductions and how to ride a bicycle so long ago, and whom Sherlock had loved dearly until Mycroft had moved out and he had hit puberty and turned into a completely different kind of person, so they had drifted apart on a growing sea of resentment like two brothers never should.

He recalled all the nasty things he had said to his brother over the past about fifteen years. And still Mycroft was sitting here after getting thoroughly pissed, probably because Sherlock had been awful to him once more, and was mumbling his name like praise, not curse. It melted the layers of ice around Sherlock's heart that had covered it for so long when it came to Mycroft. All these years of separation, all these hateful conversations and resentments crumbled, and he stroked a stray black curl out of his brother's face, trying to pretend that his eyes weren't wet. And he had not turned his head to kiss the other man's hot temple, had he?

“My beautiful boy,” blubbered out of Mycroft's mouth now, and then something that had lain on the couch next to him dropped onto the floor. It was a frame, and it had fallen onto the front, hiding its content. Curious, Sherlock urged Mycroft to lean back against the couch where it was safer for him anyway, and bent down to pick it up.

He wasn’t surprised to see his own face on the picture. It was an old photo. Sherlock had been seventeen. His eyes were huge, the lashes impossibly long and black against his pale skin, his lips were showing a pout – his normal expression as a teenager. Probably John would say it still was… His hair was a short mess of curls, his cheekbones were accentuated by the shadow and his entire appearance oozed teenage-brattishness. A beautiful young man, Sherlock thought matter-of-factly, pissed off that his father had taken a picture of him.

He hadn't seen it since then and of course he'd had no idea that Mycroft had taken it. Carefully he put it onto the table top and then he sat down close to his brother, whose eyes had closed again.

“What shall we do,” he mumbled to himself. How would they get out of this jungle of resentment and power-play and sentiment and disappointed expectations? How were they supposed to overcome a past that had separated them for nearly half of Sherlock's life?

“Sherlock…” Mycroft mumbled again, opening his eyes.

They were very close now and Sherlock could smell the whiskey in his breath. It filled his heart with a sympathy Mycroft would hate.

And then Mycroft closed the distance and kissed him on the lips.

For once in his life, a life dedicated to science and thinking and deductions, Sherlock's brain stopped working. All he could do now was feel and smell and taste. Vaguely registering that this kiss hadn't entirely come as a surprise, he lifted his free hand and laid it on the warm chest full of wiry hair, and he could feel the soft flesh of Mycroft's nipple and the hammering of his heart beneath. And he could feel a pull in his groin when his cock started moving upwards.

His mouth opened in an attempt to… what, stop Mycroft? Tell him all the millions of reasons why doing this was a really bad idea? Instead Mycroft's tongue slipped inside and met Sherlock's, and an automatic groan escaped his throat.

His brain finally started functioning again and he analysed this situation like he did with every situation. He was kissing his older brother and fumbling with his left nipple. His cock had filled out at these actions. Mycroft had obviously wanted to do this for a very long time, but he would have never done it in a sober state of mind. Their relationship had been a mess before, but now it had become the mother of all messes. When Mycroft had sobered up and recalled this moment, he would probably move to Antarctica or join a convent in Tibet.

And what was this doing to _him_? Except for turning his world of brain and reason upside down, reducing him to a feeling, sexually aroused and completely confused man?

He didn’t know it. This was unknown territory to such extent that he felt like a little boy, having been abandoned in the woods. He had no experience with romantic love, sex and even desiring anybody, but the proof for the desire was straining against his flies painfully, and in his - for such a long time unused - heart he could feel the love for his brother he had only rediscovered minutes ago mingling with a completely foreign feeling of the kind of love people wrote songs about.

It was too much, too fast, too crazy. And still they were kissing. He could taste the whiskey and Earl Grey and Mycroft, and there was no real rhythm to it as Sherlock was completely out of his depth and Mycroft was completely drunk. The kisses were clumsy and wet and yet Sherlock craved for more. But then Mycroft's movements got slower, and he sacked away in Sherlock's arm. He had fallen asleep…

Sherlock could have left him on the sofa. If they were both lucky, Mycroft would think it had been a drunken dream or fantasy, and they could go on with their lives.

But of course that wouldn’t work. Sherlock knew now his brother loved him in more ways than he had ever considered, and he couldn't deal with him like before anymore. He could have tried to change their brotherly relationship to the better without ever mentioning this though. Perhaps it would have worked.

Instead he took a deep breath and lifted Mycroft over his shoulder and carried him upstairs. He had seen this in movies John had forced him to watch and it had looked easy, but it really wasn't. He knew his back would hurt for days and he could be happy if he could move the next day. But he managed to bring his taller, heavier brother to his bedroom, feeling slightly like a caveman carrying his prey. He had to open three doors until he had found Mycroft's large chamber.

With a groan, he dropped Mycroft onto his generous bed. He took off his brother's shoes and his trousers and manhandled him under the blanket, trying to not gaze at the large appendage in his brother's pants. Even in his drunk state, Mycroft had gotten hard, too. The erection had mostly disappeared but there was still an impressive bulge in his black underwear.

He went into the bathroom and came back with a wet, soaped flannel. Gently he washed Mycroft's face and then took care of his neck and chest and armpits. That had to be enough for now. Mycroft hadn't smelled sweaty but Sherlock didn’t like the idea of putting him to sleep without a little refreshing. He urged his brother to lie on his side just in case he had to throw up, and then he tugged the blanket close around him, and after one last long look, he left Mycroft's bedroom.

After debating with himself, he left the bottle of fine whiskey on the living room table. And after some more thinking, he wrote a note that he placed against the bottle. It was short but it took him several minutes to write it down, and not only because his hand was shivering.

_Hello Mycroft._

_Sorry for my nasty behaviour. Perhaps we can drink this together soon. If you still need help on this case, let me know and I'll take care of it._

_Sherlock_

*****

When he arrived in Baker Street, John was sitting in his armchair, typing on his notebook. He saw at once that this apology had not worked like the others had. “Want to talk about it?” he carefully asked, and Sherlock was grateful for his sensitivity.

“Not now, John. It's… difficult.” That could count for the understatement of the year…

John nodded. “I see. Siblings…”

“Did you call Harry?” Sherlock changed the subject elegantly.

The doctor smiled. “Yes. We'll meet tomorrow evening. Have dinner together in a restaurant close to where she lives.”

“That's good.” He hoped he would meet Mycroft then, too. With the difference that obviously John and his sister would not be burdened by feelings Sherlock hadn't known existed. At least not for them…

He could still taste Mycroft's mouth and feel the texture of his skin where he had kissed him on the temple. He still felt the weight of his body on his shoulder. He could still hear him saying his name.

And even a man as inexperienced with relationships of most sorts Sherlock knew that this had either been the start of something exciting, mind-blowing and life-changing and totally forbidden or the end of any bond with the brother he, as he finally understood today, loved, and obviously not only in the usual way. On his way home in the cab, he had started to accept that these feelings, as strange and crazy as they were, were too overwhelming to not explore them, if Mycroft would only let him.

He had made friends and had started to get along better with people because he treated them better. But none of them could be the love interest he hadn't known he longed for. In the typical 'Holmeses-are-not-like-anybody-else'–way he knew that Mycroft could.

## Lover Mycroft

“Um, you're sure it's okay if I go?”

Sherlock looked up. He had been brooding in his chair for more than an hour without moving. “Of course, John. I hope you and Harry will have a good time.”

“And you? Will you go…”

“I don't know.”

“He didn’t get back to you?”

Sherlock shrugged. He had texted Mycroft after not hearing anything from him during the morning. He hadn't replied. In the afternoon Sherlock had gathered all his courage and called him, but the call had been forwarded to Anthea, who had told him that Mycroft was in a meeting and would call him back. He hadn't. Now it was almost seven o'clock and Sherlock doubted that his brother was still tied up at work. He was avoiding him. Which meant he remembered everything. At least he remembered having been a drunken mess in his presence...

He should have taken the whiskey with him and left without a trace. Perhaps Mycroft would have thought he had gone to bed by himself and everything that had occurred had been happening in his drunken mind only.

He had behaved like an idiot. He should have never returned this kiss. His brother had been drunk and excused, but Sherlock didn’t have any excuse. In fact he had taken advantage of his brother who had not been himself…

But he had wanted the kissing. He wanted, in fact, more of it. But it seemed to be hopeless now…

“No, he didn’t,” he said to John now, trying to hide his hurt and disappointment. “He might still be busy. Just go and my regards to Harry.”

John nodded. “Okay. Call or text me if you need anything.”

“Thank you, John. For everything.”

The doctor was surprised, then he smiled. “Anytime, Sherlock. You can have everything from me. Well, almost everything…”

Sherlock winced. Did he suspect anything? Had he sensed that Sherlock was open now for a sexual relationship, only not with whom? He forced himself to smile back and then John was gone.

He got up and started pacing around in the flat. Several minutes passed while his brain was working overtime. Should he go to Mycroft's house again? Should he call him again? Should he…

And then he heard steps on the stairs and stopped dead. The steps didn’t belong to John or Mrs Hudson. He recognised them. It was the only other person who had a key to his flat.

And then his brother was standing in the doorframe, looking at him. He was dressed in a grey pinstripe suit with a dark-grey waistcoat, looking like his elegant self. He wasn't wearing a coat and he didn’t carry his umbrella or a briefcase. So he had gone home after work. Probably sitting in his chair, debating with himself whether or not he should meet Sherlock. At least Sherlock thought that was what had happened; it wasn't a valid deduction. His brother's face was a mask of impenetrability, showing nothing of what might have gone through his mind.

“Hello,” Sherlock finally broke the silence. “Why don't you come in?” He realised that Mycroft must still have eyes on the house. He had come when John had left.

Mycroft nodded and stepped into the flat.

“Would you like to…” Sherlock broke off, blushing. Not good to offer his brother a drink after last night.

“Some water, if you have,” Mycroft said calmly.

“Sure. Sit down. I'll be back in a minute.”

When he returned, Mycroft was sitting on the couch, his back very straight. He didn’t look like a man who had been totally drunk the night before. No signs of a hangover whatsoever. All calm coolness. But his eyes were betraying him. They looked careful now, _fear_ ful even.

Sherlock handed him a glass of water, and Mycroft thanked him and took a sip before he put it onto the table.

Sherlock had sat down next to him in the meantime, with about a metre of distance between them. He realised he should have brought some water for himself. His throat was painfully dry. But probably the water wouldn’t have helped in this case.

When Mycroft didn't say anything for half a minute, Sherlock broke the silence he couldn't endure. His pulse was racing but he tried to calm himself down. This might very well be the most important moment of his life, and he was shit scared.

"Busy day?" he asked, casually as he hoped.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Very. Sorry that I didn't get back to you."

"No problem. If you had one meeting after the other, you..."

"It wasn't because of this," Mycroft confessed quietly. "I... God, I have no idea how to start..." He sounded desperate, and both his inability to find the right words and showing such a sentiment were a total novelty. "Thanks for... the present and your note," he rasped out then, avoiding the touchy subject.

Sherlock had no intention on putting pressure on him. "You're welcome. Sorry for... what I said to you yesterday. I don't know why I said it."

"No?" Mycroft sounded genuinely surprised. "After hating me for..."

"I've never hated you!" Sherlock burst out. Had Mycroft really forgotten about the kisses?

"All right..." Mycroft's voice was very quiet now. "Thank you. I'm... so ashamed..." he whispered then.

Sherlock grew cold inside. "About what?" he asked breathily.

"About the mess you found me in!" Mycroft rubbed his face. "I don't usually... drink so much. The odd drink, yes, but this…"

"Perhaps substance abuse _does_ run in the family," slipped out of Sherlock's mouth, and he was tempted to slap himself in the face for this _'typical-old-Sherlock'_ -remark. John would have shouted the house down if he had heard it...

Mycroft just winced and swallowed, which didn't make it any better.

"Sorry..." Sherlock whispered.

"Why do you apologise? Point taken! You must think I'm a total hypocrite... Admonishing you to stay sober and then… Did you... carry me upstairs?"

"My achy back says 'yes'," Sherlock attempted to lighten up the mood. Surprisingly enough, he hardly felt any pain from this unusual exercise, just a light pull in his lower back.

"Oh God... You should have let me lie on the sofa." Mycroft's cheeks were flushed now, and he was avoiding Sherlock's gaze.

 _He **does** remember everything_, Sherlock was sure in this moment. "I thought your bed was more comfortable than the couch." His tone had sounded a tad suggestive, he realised.

Mycroft blushed even harder.

Sherlock knew he would never speak it out so he had to do it. "I washed you a bit after undressing you," he continued in a light tone.

Mycroft buried his face in his hands and mumbled something.

"Sorry? I didn't catch that?"

"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock! Time after time I admonished you to not take drugs and then you find me pissed like the worst sailor! And as if this wasn't bad enough..." He broke off, looking terrified and shaken after making this step into the minefield.

"... you kissed me," Sherlock finished the sentence calmly.

"Oh dear God... I'm so..."

"And I kissed you back."

“You did… Why?”

“Because it felt good…” No, this wasn't sufficient. Of course it had felt good but… “It felt right,” he corrected.

Mycroft shook his head with a desperate expression. “But it isn't right!”

“Says who? Who has to decide what is right for us or has the right to judge us?”

Mycroft closed his eyes. “Law. Society. Our parents, your friends – they would be…”

“I don't care because they won't know about it. I didn’t plan to introduce you as my new boyfriend.”

Mycroft huffed out an unamused laugh. “You seriously think you can hide it from your dear doctor?”

“I won't have to. He will understand.”

“What?” Mycroft stood up. “I should leave before anything happens we can't make undone. You can't seriously think that John…”

“He will accept it.” Sherlock was completely sure. _'You can have everything from me'._ “But if you don't feel comfortable with it, we'll hide it from him as well. We can meet in your house. He wants me to connect with you. It's no problem.”

Slowly Mycroft sat down again. “You really want this, Sherlock? I don't understand… Until yesterday I thought I'm your worst enemy. In your eyes…”

Sherlock shrugged. “I don't know if I can explain it. How do you explain feelings, especially if you are not used to them at all? It just happened. A chemical reaction, if you want. And all the time when John tried to make me a better person - and yes, I know it sounds hopeless but I think it sort of worked - I thought how different we both are from all the others. We are… special. I don't want to… have someone who can't live up to me. And all this being nice, forced by John, made me not want to be alone anymore, either, I guess. I didn’t realise it until yesterday. And then I saw you, so… out of control, so… human and different and something happened. It happened to you long ago, didn’t it?” He didn’t add that Mycroft had been simply adorable in his drunken state. He was quite sure Mycroft wouldn’t approve of that description.

Mycroft, who had listened silently to his confusing attempt at an explanation for something inexplicable, nodded. “Yes. I… hadn't been at home for way too long. Almost two years. And then Mummy sent me some pictures, showing me how she had rearranged the garden. And she included the picture you surely saw yesterday. It blew me away. You were your usual rebellious self but I realised how unbelievably beautiful you are. Apart from being the smartest individual I'd known. I remembered the time when we'd been close and I knew I wanted to be even closer, no matter how guilty it made me feel. And then you started taking drugs and I was so worried and upset…”

Sherlock winced. “I thought you despised me…”

“Despise you?! Oh, Sherlock… I was just so bloody afraid you could die! I was angry that you attacked your own awesome brain with illegal substances. I thought you would mess it up and I'd lose you. And I did. I had long before… And it just got worse and worse… And I wanted you more and more…”

“I'm so sorry for everything, Mycroft.” Sherlock was deeply touched by the despair in Mycroft's voice at the memory. Again all his layers of ice had disappeared, and this time he was totally sober. He had this impact on his big brother… “I hope we can make a new start. As brothers. And as lovers.”

Mycroft still looked as if he couldn’t believe it, and Sherlock didn’t blame him in the least.

Sherlock knew he had to be convincing now. “I want to… know you, Mycroft. I don't. I never really did. And I want to… be close to you. Like right now.”

Mycroft swallowed. “I fought this for so long. If you are really sure you want to give it a try…”

“I am.” Sherlock got up and held out his hand. “Come. John will be gone for hours and Mrs Hudson has her bridge-club-evening and will not be home before midnight, but I think we should go to my room, just in case.”

Mycroft took his hand and followed him to the end of the flat. Sherlock closed and locked the door of his bedroom behind them and turned to him. “Kiss me again? With your full senses this time?”

“My Sherlock,” Mycroft mumbled like he had done the evening before, and then his arms were wrapped around Sherlock's waist and their lips met once more, and this time Sherlock tasted a hint of Earl Grey and peppermint and no alcohol, and he held onto his brother, letting him guide him, and the kisses were not clumsy and wet anymore as they were finding into a heated, desperate rhythm, and before long, their erections were pressed against each other.

Sherlock knew they would have to talk, find to a new balance, but he didn’t want to talk now. It would turn something deeply emotional into an intellectual debate of pros and cons and doubts and concerns, and he felt that they had to postpone it until they were both sure that the other one was trustful and trustworthy enough to go down this path of breaking the law and deceiving everybody. They had to know it was worth all the risks they were taking. Sherlock wanted to prove his brother that he was deadly serious about this, as spontaneous and sudden as it had happened – even though he was rather sure these emotions had been there before, locked away well in his soul, deeply hidden under all his resentments and nastiness towards his brother. And he couldn't think of proving his sincerity in any other way than showing him his affection and his desire.

Then they could talk.

“Let me unwrap you,” he said after gently breaking the passionate kiss.

Mycroft, all flushed face and swollen lips, looked at him out of dazed eyes. “Yes, brother mine. Do with me as you wish. If it's the only time, I'll still remember it forever.”

Sherlock was stunned about this openly expressed sentiment. Mycroft might still be fully dressed, but his feelings were on the surface now for him to see. He smiled while unbuttoning Mycroft's waistcoat after slipping off his jacket. “Not the only time, not by far. But please keep in mind that for me it's the _first_ time. So if I fuck up, don't think it's because I don't want it. It's just that I never did it.”

Mycroft smiled back and stroked his cheek. “I'm yours to explore what you want. It's madness to do it here but if you're sure they won't come back so soon…”

Sherlock opened the last button of Mycroft's shirt and took care of his own. “They won't. But let's try to keep our voices down, just in case.” He recalled his conversation with Mrs Hudson about his deep moaning all too well… He wondered how Mycroft would sound when he came… The thought made him feel dizzy. “And it will be over quickly anyway. I doubt that either of us can control himself for very long…”

“Point made.” Mycroft took off his trousers along with his pants and socks at the same time as Sherlock did. When they were both naked, they looked down at the other one's body hungrily.

Mycroft was so stunning… All pale skin and dark hair and an impressive dick with a large, wide crown, glistening with wetness. His legs were long and looked well-trained. And he had a bloody cute little bottom…

And then their bodies crashed together, and so did their hearts.

*****

Sherlock's bed wasn't exactly huge so there wasn't much room for them to explore one another, but they did it as well as they could. Sherlock's hands were busy stroking every inch of his brother's warm body, scratching wiry hair, touching soft skin, pulling at his massive erection while Mycroft was mirroring his actions during a lasting, increasingly skilful kiss.

The last bit of resistance Mycroft had shown vanished, and Sherlock knew his brother was willing to give them a chance, which said everything about the depth of his feelings. He was risking his career, his reputation and last but not least his freedom, and he wouldn’t do it if Sherlock didn’t mean everything to him. He had never let go of Sherlock, had never stopped reaching out to him in what strange, twisted way ever, and Sherlock only now appreciated it. He had no intention to ever let go of his brother again.

He winced when Mycroft gently pushed him away but gasped when the older man urged him to lie down on his back and spread his thighs, kneeling before the bed. With helpless arousal, he watched his pink, swollen member disappearing between Mycroft's lips.

The noises his sucking caused were vulgar, obscene and delightful, and Sherlock buried his hands in his brother's dark hair, holding onto him, pushing his hips up to meet his rhythm. Mycroft hit him with his teeth a few times but Sherlock didn’t care at all. In fact the sharp little pain only added to his arousal. All the muscles in his groin seemed to constrict and he got very close very quickly, and then Mycroft let go of him, making him protest in desperation.

But The British government just smiled and lifted his arse to put a pillow under it, and then his tongue started to explore Sherlock's other side, and it was even more exciting. He imagined doing the same for Mycroft while he was roughly masturbating, and when Mycroft's tongue pushed inside him, he came with a barely muffled groan all over his chest.

And then Mycroft was all over him, his long, hard dick sliding through the mess on Sherlock's panting body, and he added his own release to it within a few moments, accompanied by hardly more than a short, deep growl right against Sherlock's temple, and then he collapsed into their combined essences.

Sherlock held him tight, stroking over his smooth back, and he wished he wouldn’t have to let him go again.

But of course it was too dangerous to stay like this for too long and risk falling asleep.

The flat was all silent when Sherlock poked his head out of his bedroom, and he took his brother's hand to go into the bathroom with him, where they had a very quick, very hot shower together before Mycroft got dressed again. Sherlock slipped into jog pants and a sweatshirt.

They sat down on the couch together, their fingers entwined, relaxed and feeling safe. If anyone came in now, it wouldn’t be a problem as they would hear it in time.

“That was very nice,” Mycroft stated after lovingly kissing him again.

“Very,” Sherlock agreed, rubbing his face against Mycroft's. “So what now? Can we text? When you have time of course? Is that safe?”

Mycroft kissed his cheekbone. “I'll send you a link so you can download a very secret program which will make it absolutely safe. I have it already of course. You can text me anytime; only my calls are forwarded when I'm in a meeting.”

“Fine. Will I see you tomorrow?”

“So eager, little brother,” Mycroft teased him. There wasn't a hint of his usual tone in his voice. “Yes, of course you will if you want that. I'll let you know when I'm ready to go home so we can meet there.”

“Will we go out together once in a while? Just as brothers,” Sherlock hurried to add.

Mycroft nodded. “Of course we can do that. It is not going to be easy though. Pretending we're just brothers.”

“When has anything in our lives ever been easy?” Sherlock asked rhetorically. “And we don't have to be mean to each other then. Everybody can know we're getting along better now. Just not how much better…”

“That's true. Thanks to John Watson and his relentless tries to tame your tongue, little brother.”

Sherlock grinned. “I do plan to use my tongue on you thoroughly though…And _in_ you.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft played with a stray curl, twirling it around his finger. “No objections whatsoever. You can also… take me.”

“Oh, damn! I want it all the ways.” How strange that a man who had never wasted much thought on sex got hard just by the thought of being allowed to penetrate his big brother's arse and get fucked by him as well…

“We can have some of this awesome whiskey you brought me,” Mycroft suggested.

Sherlock nodded. “Oh yes. I bet it's good.”

Mycroft bit his lip. “I… wasn't quite honest with you, Sherlock. I do tend to drink too much. Not often as much as I did yesterday but… it has become a very bad habit.”

“I'll make sure you can relax in another way from now on,” Sherlock assured him.

Mycroft smiled. “So we'll keep each other sober?”

“I've been sober for years, Mycroft. Since I got to work on the cases. Okay, there has been the odd trip but not since John came into my life.”

“I'm sorry. I didn’t mean to imply that you're still using hard drugs.”

Sherlock nodded. “I guess there's a lot we'll have to talk about. In between of shagging each other's brains out.”

Mycroft laughed. “If we do that, how will we be able to think then?”

“We've been thinking for way too long. Now it's time for sentiment.”

The older man grimaced. “You said the ghastly word!”

“No, big brother. Not ghastly. Just us and this crazy thing between us.”

“Crazy indeed. I was feeling so guilty for wanting you all this time.”

“Well, I hope you don't anymore. I certainly don't.”

“Amazing. Kiss me again, Sherlock.”

And that's what they did for the next thirty minutes until Mycroft reluctantly got up to leave. Sherlock felt strangely empty when he was alone. He had never minded being on his own but now he felt kind of robbed.

He lay down on the couch, thinking about the logistics and the necessities of this secret love and all the luring possibilities, sex-wise, and this was the pose John found him in when he returned.

“Hi Sherlock. You okay?”

“Sure.” He sat up, trying to look as normal as possible. “How was your dinner?”

John threw himself onto the couch as well. “It was good. Really good. Kind of awkward at first but then… she really changed a lot. Stays sober. Goes to her meetings. And it looks as if Clara wants to give her another chance.”

“That sounds great.”

“What about you? Did you reach your brother?”

Sherlock knew he couldn’t lie now. He had to stick as close to the truth as possible without giving it away. He was still sure that John would be supportive but Mycroft wouldn’t approve of it so he wouldn’t do it. “He was here,” he said casually. “It was pretty nice.” Oh, and _how_ nice…

“Hey, that's great! So you had the talk? Tried to figure out why your relationship is so fucked up? Ah, probably not on the first meeting…”

Sherlock immediately took the opportunity. “No, it will require some more contact. He's actually not that bad…”

“I never thought he was.”

“You didn’t?”

“Well, being kidnapped and brought to this creepy place wasn’t exactly nice but… he only did it to find out if I can be trusted with treating you right. It's actually kind of cute.”

Sherlock suppressed a grin about the choice of words. But he was very pleased that John didn’t really dislike his brother. It would make things easier hopefully. “I'll see him tomorrow evening,” he informed his flatmate.

John nodded. “That's fine. You can really be proud of yourself. You've come a really long way, being so much kinder to people and even reconcile with your brother.”

“Only because of you. Without you, I'd still be the same bastard.” And it was true. Without John's efforts, this evening would have never occurred.

John patted his knee. “You've never been a bastard. Just a bit… too straight forward.”

“Nobody could call me straight, John,” Sherlock joked, blushing at once.

“Ah, I know that. Girlfriends are not your area, right?”

“No, they really aren't. Well, I think I go to bed now.”

“So will I. Goodnight, Sherlock.”

“Goodnight, John. And thank you.” _For much more than you know…_

John smiled and winked. “Never mind. Making Holmeses happy is my main purpose.”

Sherlock was taken aback. That had sounded rather strange…

The doctor stepped closer. “You might not know that but if you kiss thoroughly, your lips look swollen for hours. And yours do.”

“Oh fuck!”

“Relax, Sherlock. You don't give me enough credit. I can see when people are unhappily in love when they talk about said person. And I saw it that evening when Mycroft interrogated me. Saw it, in fact, every time he came along to talk to you and got rejected by you. Took me a long while to think it through and get accustomed to the idea. You know – incest and law and you being safe and this stuff. And then… I knew I had to do something about it.”

“You want to tell me that all this 'be nice to everybody' was supposed to…”

“…lead to you being nice to Mycroft, yes. But of course it was not just a great side effect that you get along better with anyone else, too. I did mean to make you nicer to everybody! But yeah - especially to Mycroft.”

“Why didn’t you just talk to me?!”

John shook his head. “You met your brother again and again and didn’t see it. You wouldn’t have believed me. You had to figure it out yourself and act on it yourself. I would have never said anything.”

Sherlock was shaken. And touched. “Damn, John…”

The doctor was looking rather smug now. “I hope you'll never call me an idiot again.”

“No, I certainly won't! The only idiot in this room is me!”

“Nah. No idiot, just a Holmes. Well, I guess we'll call it a night now, huh?”

“Why don't we… stay up for a minute longer and I'll make tea?”

“You know what – that sounds very good.”

“Thank you, John,” Sherlock said hoarsely. “I'll never forget that you did this.”

“Ah, nonsense. What are friends there for?”

“Yeah, for what if not for playing matchmaker for two brothers!”

John chuckled, and then the front door opened up. He laid a forefinger onto his mouth. “Mrs Hudson is back.”

“Somehow it wouldn’t surprise me at all if she had gotten it, too,” Sherlock mumbled.

“Well, me neither. Anyway – tea?”

“Yes. Tea.” But before Sherlock went into the kitchen, he gave his best friend a firm hug, and yelped when John smacked his arse playfully.

He was very happy. And very lucky. He had the best friend on earth and the best big brother on earth. He would never let go of any of them.

## Epilogue

Sherlock spent the next evening in his brother's house – and in his bed. They had started with severe petting on the couch after Sherlock had gently informed Mycroft that John not only knew about them but had in fact had played a rather important role in bringing them together. Mycroft had needed a drink after that and they had tried the fine whiskey that Sherlock had brought him.

When he had accepted that John Watson didn’t even think of giving them away and therefore didn’t have to be sent to a desert island, they turned to more pleasant activities i.e. taking turns in sucking each other off and then Sherlock was urged to top his brother.

Sherlock went home like floating on Cloud Nine, and the next day he surprised a completely shocked Sergeant Donovan by pecking her on the cheek after she had mocked his explanations at a murder scene.

On that evening, Mycroft came over to Baker Street to get rid of his last doubts regarding John, and they had a rather satisfying conversation with the doctor who left them alone then so they could have even more satisfying sex on Sherlock's bed, this time with Mycroft fucking Sherlock.

The day after Sherlock brought Mrs Hudson flowers for no particular reason, and she beamed at him and thanked him and said she would have never thought some nice brotherly shagging could do wonders to his behaviour. Sherlock closed his eyes and counted to ten, but he couldn’t have said he was overly surprised. Mycroft was all the more surprised though so he showed up in Baker Street once more to have 'the talk' with Mrs Hudson this time before Sherlock dragged him into his room once more.

During the next weeks, the Holmes brothers explored their new-found love thoroughly in Mycroft's house, but Mycroft also came over to Sherlock's place quite often to spend some nice, casual time with John and Mrs Hudson before the Holmes brothers retreated into Sherlock's room, and they grew more and more into being some strange sort of family.

When Mycroft could very rarely not meet up with Sherlock because of his work, Sherlock spent time with John or Greg or both, with Greg being the only oblivious one.

Sherlock didn’t miss his former life as a kind of a lone wolf. He had his friends and he had found the man he loved in his brother, and life was as good as it could be to Sherlock Holmes, the not-so-sociopathic consulting detective.

The End


End file.
